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Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain ; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

“Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn ;'

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay, But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

ROGERS.

POSCARI.

Let us lift up the curtain, and observo What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh, And now a groan is heard. Then all is still. Twenty are sitting as in judgment there; Men who have served their country, and grown gray In governments and distant embassies, Men eminent alike in war and peace; Such as in effigy shall long adorn The walls of Venice-to show what she has been. Their garb is black, and black the arras is, And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks Are calm, are cheerful; nothing there like grief, Nothing or harsh, or cruel. Still that noise, That low and dismal moaning.

Half withdrawn, A little to the left sits one in crimson, A venerable man, fourscore and upward.

Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow. His hands are clenched ; his eyes half shut and glazed ; His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble. "Tis Foscari, the Doge. And there is one, A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out In torture. 'Tis his son, his only one ; "Tis Giacomo, the blessing of his age, (Say, has he lived for this ?) accused of murder, The murder of the Senator Donato. Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were dropt Into the lion's mouth, the mouth of brass, That gapes and gorges; and the Doge himself, ('Tis not the first time he has filled this office) Must sit and look on a beloved son Suffering the question.

Twice, to die in peace,
To save a falling house, and turn the hearts
Of his fell adversaries, those who now,
Like hell hounds in full cry, are running down
His last of four, twice did he ask their leave
To lay aside the Crown, and they refused him,
An oath exacting, never more to ask it ;
And there he sits, a spectacle of wo,
By them, his rivals in the state, compelled,
Such the refinement of their cruelty,
To keep the place he sighed for.

The screw is turned, and as it turns, the Son
Looks up, and in a faint and broken accent,
Murmurs “ My Father !” The old man shrinks back.

And in his mantle muffles up his face.
· Art thou not guilty ?" says a voice, that once
Would greet the sufferer long before they met,
And on his ear strike like a pleasant music,
“ Art thou not guilty ?"_" No! indeed I am not.”
But all is unavailing. In that court
Groans are confessions ; Patience, Fortitude,
The work of magic; and released, upheld,
For condemnation, from his Father's lips
He hears the sentence, “ Banishment to CANDIA.
Death if he leaves it."

And the bark sets sail ;

His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents !
Gone in the dead of night-unseen of any-
Without a word, a look of tenderness,
To be called up, when, in his lonely hours
He would indulge in weeping:

Like a ghost,
Day after day, year after year, he haunts
An ancient rampart, that o'erhangs the sea ;
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting
To answer to the watch—Alas, how changed
From him the mirror of the youth of Venice,
In whom the slightest thing, or whim, or chance,
Did he but wear his doublet so and so,
All followed : at whose nuptials, when at length
He won that maid at once the fairest, noblest,

That house as old as VENICE, now among

Its ancestors in monumental brass,
Numbering eight Doges-to convey her home,
The Bucentaur went forth, and thrice the Sun
Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front,
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged
To tourney in St. Marks.

But lo, at last, Messengers come. He is recalled : his heart Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat Springs to the oar, and back again he goes, Into that very chamber! there to lie

And thence look up (Five long, long years of grief Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire,

Immoveable, enveloped in his mantle.
But now he comes, convicted of a crime
Great by the laws of VENICE. Night and day,
Brooding on what he had been, what he was,
'Twas more than he could bear. His longing fits
Thickened upon him. His desire for home
Became a madness; and, resolved to go,
If but to die, in his despair he writes
A letter to Francesco, Duke of MILAN,
Soliciting his influence with the State,
And drops it to be found." Would ye know all
I have transgressed, offended wilfully ;
And am prepared to suffer as I ought.
But let me, let me, if but for an instant,
Ye must consent for all of you are sons,
Most of you husbands, fathers, let me first,

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